


Devil-May-Care

by cinereous



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Blackouts, Body Possession, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Selfcest, Surprisingly Romantic Horror, Treat, unusual courtship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29573886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinereous/pseuds/cinereous
Summary: Becoming a Phantom Thief put a new spin on normality for Akira. He was aware of shadows, personas, an alternate reality, and unfathomable magic. When he starts to experience mysterious blackouts, however, Akira is forced to realize that there was a level of strange that scared even him.
Relationships: Joker/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Devil-May-Care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaerstyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaerstyne/gifts).



> This work was beta read by [habenaria_radiata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/habenaria_radiata) who is the best.

“Kid.”

…

…

“Hey, Kid!”

Akira slammed upright with a panicked inhale, his glasses falling from his face and landing somewhere in his lap. His lungs felt too full too fast, air stuck painfully in his throat while his heart pounded ruthlessly against his ribs. His eyes were blown wide, unseeing, and terrified for a split second.

Then the warm colors and low lit interior of Leblanc swam up around him like a fog being lifted, comforting and familiar. The tv sat turned off in the corner to his right and the room was so silent he could hear the creak of Sojiro’s stool as he shifted with noncommittal concern a few feet away.

Cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck, and Akira was suddenly aware of his white knuckled grasp on the edge of the table in front of him. The surface was faintly sticky against his slick palms.

There was a textbook open in front of him and a set of notes in his handwriting that swam a bit in his state of confusion. He was vaguely aware of the crinkle of newspaper and the grunt of stool legs on the floor before the overwhelming cloud of Sojiro’s aftershave rushed under his nose as the man walked by him to the door.

“If you’re going to fall asleep studying then you should do it upstairs. I have a business to run, kid. I’m leaving. Make yourself useful. Come lock up behind me.”

Akira stumbled to his feet on legs that felt weak and unstable, but he didn’t fall. He watched Sojiro leave, flipping the sign and focusing on catching his breath as he found himself now alone. The cafe yawned with empty silence at his back, and Akira slowly turned and walked back to the booth. The notebook was full of English notes, and he reached out to glide his fingertips with ghostly pressure against the graphite and paper.

Precise. Neat. His eyes trailed along the elegant marks and familiar, sweeping lines. He loved writing out Js, slashing the horizontal lines or making sharp knicks of the dots like he would with a dagger. There was no mistaking that these notes were all his own, crafted by his mind and by his hand.

But he had no memory of writing them.

Nor could he ignore the very, very small string of hiragana written in the margin.

_Hello._

\---------

The next time Akira woke up it was on a stool inside the laundromat right outside of Leblanc. It was three days after the first time, and the sensation of coming back to consciousness to the heavy vibration of a running washing machine against his shoulder was one of the most surreal things he had ever experienced. 

He sat up slowly, noting with confusion the way he felt too warm in his own skin, a layer of sweat glistening along his arms. That in itself gave Akira pause as he looked down. He tended to wear long sleeves save for the heavy heat of summer. 

He _had_ been wearing long sleeves when he returned from school today. He remembered pushing them up to his elbows to wash dishes for Sojiro and then tugging them back down on his way up the stairs. Akira had done homework and fiddled at his desk and then…

His memory was a blank void. He could remember gently shaving strips of cork bark with a box cutter, the lamp bright and reflecting off the pile of tin clasps and condenser lenses and then nothing.

Akira took a large, deep breath to calm himself, lifting his hand to twist at a piece of his hair as he slowly stood up from the stool and wandered out. The city was quietly bustling as always, and he walked like a ghost through the moving bodies of strangers towards Leblanc in a daze.

The bell chimed overhead as he entered, and Sojiro looked up from his paper with a glare, eyes sliding up and then down his body before back to the tv in a dismissive flick.

“You shouldn’t leave that close to close. You’ll get locked out. Don’t be so careless. Buy clothes when you’ve got more time to do it, kid.”

Clothes?

Akira looked down at himself properly and realized for the first time since waking that he was indeed wearing new clothes. He blinked and frowned, taking in the tight fitting black denim and blood red button down he was apparently wearing instead of his more unobtrusive blue jeans and soft sweater.

His feet felt like they were encased in concrete, but he walked resolutely all the same, heading for the door of the bathroom and stepping inside. The light inside was dimmer and duller than even the cafe, but it illuminated his reflection in the mirror enough to know the truth.

His glasses were gone and his hair was pushed to the side in an admittedly stylish wave, and he couldn’t help but reach up to rub his eye, a smear of soft kohl smudging along his cheek. He looked like someone who had just come home from a night of dancing. Or at least someone who wanted it to look that way.

How long had he been out? It was almost close but not quite and he vaguely remembered the time when he was working. Three hours? What had happened in those three hours?

Akira resolutely scrubbed away the makeup until he looked vaguely racoony and tired before he wandered out and up the stairs. The attic was as he left it. His phone was at the desk along with his projects. The bed and his box of belongings were all undisturbed, and there was no extra set of footprints on the floor that didn’t belong to his own shoes.

The only sign that there was anything amiss at all was that the attic window was open, the clothesline strung along the rafters swaying lightly in the night breeze. There on the window sill sat his glasses, folded and gleaming under the light of the street lamps outside.

\----------

The third time he woke up was at three in the morning and in darkness.

Akira’s eyes slammed open amid a noisy gasp. He felt like he was drowning, choking on the inky black around him and already fumbling for his phone in a panic. It didn’t truly make impact with his mind that he was in bed. That this was just the reaction to a nightmare. Akira hit the button on the side of his phone, lighting up the space around him with electronic blinding light and his background depicting a group photo of himself and his friends.

The numbers across the face seared 3:24 AM into his retinas as he slowly sat up. 

This didn’t feel like the prison dreams. There was no sense of vaguely unsettling certainty of where he had been. There was no aching cold against his ankles and wrists or the odd flashes of bright, otherworldly blue through his subconscious before he awoke.

No. This was cold dread. This was soft aches in muscles meant to be unused in sleep and the heat of a good run still burning beneath his skin. He was certain he could smell outside air wafting from his body, and a hurried glance to his side proved that his window was once again open.

A gleam of moonlight on metal caught his eye, and Akira shifted his gaze to his other side, towards the shelving unit that he kept important items on. He could see the vague pale shape of the swan boat there next to the ramen bowl and his Jack Frost plush’s creepy smile jeered back at him.

But beside the possessions he was familiar and fond of sat new things. A silk scarf draped over the metal shelf like a snake, so deeply, vibrant red that he could see the color even in the darkness. Some sort of massive fake diamond sparkled next to a collection of gaudy gold painted roses.

There was a bowl constructed beautifully of ruby glitter glass filled to the brim with chunky costume jewelry and, oddly, plumes of gorgeous peacock feathers that swayed gently from the open window. 

What scared him the most, however, was the shelf just below it where a jewelry display mannequin torso sat hidden in the shadows. It was easy to tell what it was, and resting on the velvet sternum was an absolutely dazzling necklace, dripping with garnets and what he hoped desperately were not real diamonds. It looked like the sort of beautiful piece featured in the heist movies he loved to watch.

And across the room he could see the boxy shape and dull shine of what he knew immediately had to be the tv he’d been eyeing up in the shop down the street.

His breath was leaving him in frantic pants by now, and Akira sat there staring at all of these new additions in absolute terror. Why were they here? Who put them here? Was it...was it him? Was he sleep walking? Was something wrong with him? He was going to get caught. He was going to go to prison with additional charges.

Akira hunched over and buried his face into his knees, inhaling deeply the scent of lavender and cotton from the sheets as he grabbed and twisted at his hair.

What could he do? How could he possibly get away with whatever his traitorous body had done in his sleep? Law enforcement wouldn’t buy that he had blackouts. 

No.

He was up on and on his feet in a second, adrenaline gripping his heart and moving him through the hyperventilation and anxiety coursing through his veins. Akira slammed to the floor on his knees hard enough to hurt, wrenching at the broken floorboards near his bed with clawing intensity.

It took him several shaking yanks before the board snapped free, revealing the dark, cobwebby recess beneath. Akira didn’t even pause. He got up and ran to the opposite side of the attic, not even thinking about his bare feet and splinters until he returned a moment later with an unused and empty milk crate. He took each item down and placed the new treasures inside, being sure the extremely decadent looking necklace on its stand was at the bottom and covered by the rest.

He wedged and pushed and fought until he could get the crate beneath the floor. He covered it with a trash bag for good measure and then wedged the floorboards back over it.

His feet were dirty from dust, and Akira sat staring at them in the moonlight as he sat heavily on the edge of his bed. The tv would have to stay. It was too big to hide. It was only then that he noticed there was blood on his hand.

His eyes narrowed and Akira looked at it, confused, before dragging up his sleeve. There were gashes all over his arm! They seemed like deep scrapes, calling to mind the time he had once climbed over a fence and gotten stuck, tumbling over the other side only to realize the top edge of the chain link had ripped bloody gashes all down his thighs.

Fuck. What was going on? What did he _do_!? Akira got up again, hurrying down the stairs. He halfway expected to see the flashing lights of police outside, but the serene silence of Leblanc greeted him inside. He shuffled and slammed around the cafe by the light of his phone, praying that no one outside noticed and thought there was a robbery in progress, but soon enough he found an old, dirty first aid kit that he dragged into the bathroom with him.

He washed and disinfected the shallow wounds, catching his eyes in the mirror time and time again. Eyeliner again. It did nothing but make the fearful wideness of his eyes all the more pronounced, but by the time he had bandages covering up the scrapes Akira’s heart rate had finally slowed to a normal pace.

He returned the first aid kit to its place and trudged up the stairs again, sitting on his bed once again and staring at the floorboards by his feet that looked like nothing so much as jagged, smiling teeth.

\----------

The next week, Akira didn’t wake up from any blackouts. He attended school and ran through Mementos with the Phantom Thieves like he normally would. He worked at the flower shop around some extremely sketchy evenings at the airsoft store, but ultimately nothing was out of place for him. It was weird by most standards, but normal for him.

He found himself lingering along the railing at the subway station with his friends around him, their meeting place these days. It was getting hotter outside, magnified through the windows and leaving him slowly sweltering to death in his school blazer.

Akira ignored his discomfort as best he could, but did slide out of his jacket and push up the sleeves of his turtle neck with a faint sigh of relief, listening to Ryuji keep talking about their next target and his general unhappiness.

On his other side, however, Akira noticed Ann staring downward with an intense expression, and his eyes followed her gaze to land on his own arm, doing a double-take.

There on his forearm were bruises. Several. None of them truly made sense to any sort of injury. They were peppered against the inner, softer skin and he didn’t remember ever banging that part of himself against anything.

Feeling nervous, Akira lifted his other arm to see they were there too, all the way to his wrists. Ann was staring at them with wide eyes and a look of shock that made him nervously jam his shirt sleeves back down, covering up the evidence and glancing towards Ryuji and Yusuke who had thankfully not noticed.

Ann leaned over to whisper into his ear, her strawberry lip gloss flavoring the intimate moment surreal. 

“ _Akira_ , are those love bites!?”

Wh-what?

His stomach plummeted, and Akira found himself inadvertently rubbing at one of his forearms like it suddenly hurt. Were they? Is that what they were? Why his arms? Did he have them anywhere else?

Feeling nervous, Akira slipped a finger into his high collar and tugged it down as surreptitiously as he could for Ann to see his neck and collar, glancing at her from the corner of his eye with the question more than clear in his panicked gaze.

Ann shook her head back, confused, and leaned in to whisper again.

“No, none there. I didn’t know you had a girlfriend! Guess you didn’t realize they were there huh? Just be careful, Akira. She seems kind of aggressive!”

Akira made a face, but nodded, not at all sure what else he could do. He could hardly tell Ann the truth...that he had no idea where they came from or why. A part of him is terrified there were more blackouts he didn’t know about during his sleeping hours. Was he meeting someone during them? 

The fear swam sickly and cold in his gut through the rest of the afternoon, and he awkwardly spent the entire train ride home staring at his bruised arms and trying to force memories into his head that he didn’t seem to own.

\--------

They were still working on the heist of Madarame’s palace. No matter how stressed he was over the blackouts and the mysterious lovebites, Akira knew that it had to take precedence. Two days in a row he made sure he was off work from his part time jobs and delved into the Metaverse with his team.

On the second night, they succeed. They manage to steal Madarame’s treasure and change his heart. It was a resounding victory, though Akira felt so exhausted he was surprised he was still standing as they talked at the subway station. 

By the time Akira had finally gotten back to Leblanc, Morgana had wanted to talk to him, but at long, long last he crawled into bed and passed out even while his stomach tore itself up with hunger. He awoke the next morning with the knowledge that he’d dreamed of the prison, memories flashing blue in his mind.

On impulse he lifted his arm like he had done every day for the past week. The little bruises had faded quickly enough, but this morning there are new ones, fresh and dark. Scrawled out along the length of his forearm were the words “You did wonderfully.”

There was something about the tired ache to his body that felt different. Akira blinked sleepily and shifted, going still and bright red as he felt the dampness of his pajama bottoms, realizing that he must have dreamed of more than just the prison during the night.

Akira sat bolt upright in the bed, flushed and embarrassed as he plucked at the band of his pants. To his utter terror he saw a small heart drawn into the spot low on his navel where the skin led up to his hip bone. Just a little bit of black just like on his arm, though he was sure this was done in permanent marker. The image and placement threw ice water down his stomach, and Akira grimly checked and confirmed that yes, he had orgasmed in his sleep.

Or...during a black out.

He swallowed thickly, looking around the attic as if expecting someone to be sitting on the sofa waiting for him to wake up, but there was no one. What there _was_ , however, was a steaming cup of coffee and what looked like a convenience store packaged bread. His favorite kind.

_You did wonderfully._

The words echoed in his mind the entire day. Ann shot glances in his direction through classes, and Akira came straight back to the cafe afterwards because he felt like he was losing his mind. 

\---------

The unremembered violation of his body was surprisingly easy to ignore when he was busy. Akira threw himself into work and school and Mementos and his friends. Every spare moment was filled with something. 

It was easier to forget the hickies after they had faded. Another week passed in relative calm. The only sign that anything was wrong was something he could tell no one.

He couldn’t explain the existence of high scores in his video games that he hadn’t won. He couldn’t tell Ann about the strangely sexual selfies on his phone that he didn’t take. There was no explanation for the morning he woke up with wet hair, the middle of the night he awoke with a start feeling a stitch in his side, or the day he nodded off in class and woke up at the final bell with fresh notes written and another note in the margins that said simply ‘You’re working too hard.’

And yet none of it could prepare him for the morning he woke up to a stinging, burning pain low on his hip. Akira hissed to no one and wrenched away blankets to inspect the spot he hurt. He found a bandage there, a faint hint of red blossoming through the gauze to signal the blood underneath. 

As usual, he couldn’t remember hurting himself. Couldn’t remember patching himself up either. He could feel the telltale delicious flavor of ache in his body that signaled he’d orgasmed at some point. And while he was clean this time around, the slight tightness of his skin there made him believe he had been washed up before he awoke.

It was unsettling. It was unsettling and humiliating and Akira felt powerless to stop any of it. He didn’t understand, but a picture was beginning to form in his mind. The pieces had started to fit and he was seeing the truth behind everything, somehow more horrifying than an intruder taking advantage of him during the night.

It was later that night as he prepared for bed that Akira stood in front of the mirror of the bathroom with the first aid kit, pants pooled around his ankles, that he carefully eased the bandage away. 

There was no surprise in his body as his eyes quietly took in the image of a perfectly carved heart in the skin, right where the inked one had been before. It was shallow enough to not be serious, but deep enough to scar. 

Akira redressed it and put himself to bed, staring into the rafters late into the night while it throbbed and stung in time with his heart beat. He was calm, calmer than he ever should be. He pulled out his phone and thumbed over to his gallery, pulling up the most recent photo.

It was him, but not.

His eyes were rimmed with black and his lips were twisted into a confident smirk. He wore only his favorite black blazer over a bare chest and held the fake dagger that he took to the Metaverse, casually pressing the tip to his lips.

It was him, but never could be him. He was not that sexy, that self-assured, that eager to be seen. There was a playful wickedness in every line of his body that whoever this was wore and molded to their own ends.

And he could admit in the tiniest and darkest corner of his mind, that Akira wanted something he couldn’t quite articulate. Wanted to be this person. 

Wanted to _have_ this person.

And if the heart healing on his hip was any indication, he already did.

It was less shock and more a bashful surprise that squirmed through his chest the next morning when he opened his eyes to find a vase full to bursting with vibrant red roses sitting on his shelf. The small card read simply “I’ll make it better”.

Akira turned the same shade as the flowers and promptly hid his face in his hands.

\--------

The fourth time he found himself awakening without warning from a blackout it was the middle of the evening.

The cafe was closed, the lamp over his desk the only light source, and Morgana was nowhere to be found. All of this was far, far from Akira’s mind though.

He came to consciousness gasping, sucking in air like a drowning man and opening his eyes in wide fear and lack of understanding. The dusty, cobweb infested beams loomed above him and the lumpy mattress and pillow were beneath him.

But with each passing heartbeat, his shocked alarm grew. 

He was hot. He was _really_ hot. Sweat itched at his skin and his hair stuck to his forehead, and he was naked. Akira was completely naked.

Almost.

His eyes darted down and his stomach burned with fearful, lustful acid to see his hands were clad in bright red leather gloves like he would normally wear in Mementos. And one was wrapped around his cock.

He laid there in that position, his hand still tight and encircling his arousal that stood proud and flushed in the dim lighting. He’d woken up in strange situations, but never had he woken up right in the middle of an action before.

With absolute embarrassment, Akira trembled and tightened his grip, sliding his hand experimentally up and then down his length, feeling the texture of the leather mixing with the slick of his own arousal. He was _close_.

He couldn’t even think, his body already leaps and bounds ahead of where his mind had been thrown into the race. It struggled and limped to catch up, and Akira realized with mortification now scorching his cheeks that his other hand down before, hooked around one of his bent legs and _oh_ , two of his own gloved fingers were pressed inside of him.

Akira had...Akira had never done that to himself before. He’d thought about it more than once, but the timing had never seemed right. He was too busy. Too lacking in privacy and supplies. Yet here he was, legs bent and spread and he could appreciate the burn and the stretch now. He could feel the ache of it low in his tailbone.

It felt like sore muscles after a good workout, tantalizing deep and fulfilling and _earned_. Akira had never felt anything like this before, and he couldn’t help over-eagerly pressing up, digging further forward and gasping loudly to the room around him. 

It was like a floodgate had been opened up. Akira moaned to the silence, immediately started to touch himself in earnest, rocking his hips up into the crimson circle of his hand. His whole body bloomed with fresh heat, his skin tingling with pleasure and his toes curling almost painfully tight into the sheets.

He moved his other hand more slowly, gently seeing how deep he could go, what angle felt good. All the while that satisfying ache and burn drove his pleasure up and up and up. His heart beat frantically in his chest, hammering against his ribs and begging to be set free. 

Every second was a fiery, lust drunk haze. Sounds he’d never made before in his life were slipping past his lips and filling his ears. The leather creaked and clung against his fingers, tight like a second skin, like a second hand touching him, fucking him, _claiming_ him.

In his mind, the image of that last photo filled his thoughts. His own eyes worn differently, his own lips twisted into sexier, more pleasing shapes.

His fingers grazed heavily along a spot inside of him that sent a cascade of pleasure so white hot he was afraid it would burn him down his spine. Akira cried out, hips snapping forward as he furiously touched himself through the sharp, intoxicating bliss.

He shook and shuddered there as familiar wet heat splashed against his stomach. Even through the tidal waves of his orgasm, Akira’s body rolled with it, riding through it and mimicking the delightful ebb and flow and electric quality to the pleasure weaving through every vein.

Akira had _never_ felt this good before in his life, and by the time he collapsed flat onto the bed, all he could think about was how he could only smell roses.

\-------

The fifth time Akira woke it was in Mementos.

The magic of the place filled his mouth, coating his tongue with the conflicting tastes of sharp metal, perfume, winter air, and old, forgotten places. The floor beneath him was cold and uneven, and Akira recognized it as the tile on the first level and sure enough the blue of the Velvet Room door was spilling across the floor.

And backlighting the figure above him.

It was him, but not.

He wore the same outfit of black leather and the same wing tipped mask. His hair fell in identical curls and the weight settled over his stomach where the other man was straddling him felt inexplicably correct.

But that was where the similarities ceased. The eyes behind the mask were heavily rimmed in black just like his own were here, but he wore it so differently. It leant a cat-like quality to them, and the smirk scrawled across his lips did nothing but enhance the predatory aura he carried.

Every inch of this person was confidence personified. Beautiful, talented, intelligent, _deadly_. 

The person who was him, but not him leaned down, Akira’s heart hammering a rhythm so fast it felt like a vibration inside his chest. He wanted to ask who he was. He wanted answers and explanations and words. He just wanted words.

But the next moment soft lips pressed against his own, soft and sure and blotting out his protest with zero effort. Akira sighed, finding his shoulders lifting up from the tile as he rushed to kiss back, tipping his head to the side to create a better angle in a fit of excitement.

He’d never been kissed before. He had watched in movies again and again and again, eyes hungry for the romantic dips and sexy glimpses of tongues, the gentle angle of the head, the needy hands combing through hair. 

Even as he thought about it, Akira could feel gloved fingers sliding into his own hair and cupping his jaw, holding him in place with impressive strength as a foreign but familiar tongue licked into his mouth and eagerly stole everything from him.

He took his fear, his nerves, his lack of confidence and instead poured nothing but lust and eager, happy excitement back into him like a never ending tap. Magic sparked and flashed all around him, unseen but felt, and Akira moaned up into the mouth that was his own but now. Every nick of teeth, slick slide of tongue, and plush caress of lips sent another wave of dizzying euphoria down to his toes.

Part of him wondered where the other Phantom Thieves were. He had come here with them hadn’t he? How had he ended up here on the top level alone? Did it matter?

The hot mouth left his own, and Akira was only vaguely aware of the stretching material of his vest being yanked down before the wet heat engulfed the tender side of his neck instead. Akira gasped and clutched at the man on top of him, fingers digging into leather and his legs skidding and sliding against the tile in an effort to find purchase when he felt like he was falling apart.

He could feel the greedy, determined suction against his throat and the powerful fingers in his hair holding him in place no matter how much he struggled. The little hidden heart on his hip seemed to practically thrum in time with his own frenzied pulse.

Just as he was about to beg, just as he was about to squirm and push over and take control and _demand_...the mouth left his skin. 

Akira whined loudly, head thunking back down on the floor just enough to smart, and he stared up in a daze towards his own face smirking down. Those same lips were flushed and bruised, damp and glistening in the strange lighting of this place.

He was beautiful. He was so much _more_ than Akira.

The other sat up slowly, rising up to a full sit and Akira could read the intentions in his movements plain as day. He was leaving. He could feel a deep bruise already blooming into life on his neck, and Akira cupped the spot, suddenly shy and embarrassed and wanting desperately to know what was happening.

Was it happening?

Was it going to happen again?

“Why?” he asked out loud, voice small and soft, painted in gentle shades of longing that he didn’t understand enough to wield.

The other him was already getting to his feet, dusting his knees with a flourish and lifting a scarlet hand. He kissed his palm and seductively blew across the surface, a whisper of blue flame igniting and fading, lighting up his eyes for that brief moment.

He walked backwards towards the escalators and paused, a smirk flooding his face and making his features go dagger blade bright and sharp.

“Why not?” 

His voice was his own, but powerful, tinged with mystery and power. He moved suddenly, and Akira watched him backflip with graceful ease, sinking into the shadows down below and out of sight without a single sound, leaving him alone, hot and full of adrenaline on the cold ground.

From far away he heard voices, recognizing the squeaky tones of Morgana and the more reserved grace of Makoto over the crunch of gravel. It was a reminder that he had arrived here with them, and Akira hurried to sit up and then get to his feet, righting his collar, but letting his fingers linger there where the new bruise settled into place beneath the fabric.

Ann was the first to crest the escalators, and when she saw him her features go wide with relief as she bolted over to him and yanked him into a hug.

“Are you okay!? We looked back and you were just gone. We were so worried. Were you hurt?!”

He shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck bashfully and watching the others appear with similar faces and words of concern, but he waved them off, weaving a quick story of getting lost and coming back to the entrance to wait for them.

Eventually they all turned to leave, and Akira cast one last glance towards the darkened platform beyond. Would what he assumed to be the Joker part of him come back? Keep taking over and living with wild abandon in the ways that Akira only wished he could?

He couldn’t help but ask himself why his heart raced at the prospect of more surprises and more possibilities to be caught and punished. Why did he want _this_? Why did he want _him_?

The answer felt simple.

Because why not?


End file.
